


various storms and saints

by foolycoolie



Category: Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Memory Related, Near Death Experiences, Nightmares, Psychometry, taking the lore about psychometry and going hog wild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21567721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolycoolie/pseuds/foolycoolie
Summary: Memory is a treasure held close to his chest. Memory is a knife buried in his stomach. Memory is a liar who insists things were better than they were.It's hard to differentiate between his own memories and the ones he's absorbed through the Force, especially when he feels them all equally.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 102





	various storms and saints

Every time he closes his eyes, he feels like he’s drowning. Invisible hands resting on his shoulders, their touch barely noticeable but forceful enough to keep him fully submerged under water. He flails his arms and legs around in a desperate attempt to break through to the surface. Just a little bit of leniency would be enough but it never comes. There’s nothing else in the water around him. Nothing to grab onto, nothing to reach out towards. Simply an endless void tinged by the faintest blue to remind him of the water threatening to claim him. Each passing second feels like agony without fresh oxygen, his body resisting against itself in an ill fated effort of self preservation. He is cut off from the Force, a familiar weight in his chest left open and gaping. He is drowning without a voice, no screams or cries for help. He simply sinks.

And slams into the ground, narrowly avoiding the stalactite that dislodged from the ceiling just above where he was standing. His heart hammers in his chest so loud he swears it echoes off the walls of the caves. It’s a miracle the shockwave didn’t send him flying off the edge of the narrow walkways, but it appears a couple of nearby Stormtroopers weren’t so lucky. They already start barking orders at him and the other workers in his group to ignore the crash and continue what they were doing. Not even stopping to attend to their fallen comrades. The sight of the uniforms made anger flash white hot in his stomach, bubbling up like lava over the edges of volcanic rock waiting to spill. The Empire had snuck their fangs into this planet, the history built and engraved into its time worn surface, and had begun draining it of life without mercy. Harvesting the earth, the people, the very soul of Zeffo for whatever it deemed useful. Everything was but a resource and every resource had its use. They did not care for life, not the life of their soldiers, nor the life of the people they bullied into carrying out their dirty work, nor the rich life that the planet they were currently excavating maintained. He thought of the artifacts buried deep under the soil, the remnants of a civilization ancient and fossilized. Being systematically destroyed in the name of feeding the war machine. His life work crumbling away before his eyes.  _ Hang on, that’s not right. _

One of the other archaeologists near him lets out a whimper, slamming her chisel into the ice block in front of her. Her palms are bruised and bleeding, even the callouses worn away with constant work and cold. There were dried tears on her face, little ice crystals forming on her cheeks and the ends of her eyelashes. He vaguely remembers her name, Aella. She was on the same expedition ship as him. She’s pretty.  _ She is. _ He wants to reach out and brush the ice off her skin, to wrap up her bloodied hands. But his hands stay on his tools, on the work in front of him, away from the constant gaze of the prison wardens.

She slams the chisel again, digging further, echoing louder. It catches the attention of a Stormtrooper that edges closer to the group. He’s come to know the telltale sign of a blaster warming up as it creeps up behind him. He tenses up out of habit. They all do. Except Aella, whose brown eyes are transfixed on the ice in front of her. Her hands tremble. His are so still it takes a moment to remember he has feeling in them.

The Stormtrooper mutters something into their comms; the words don’t really matter. Only the barrel of their rifle sliding closer to the back of Aella’s head. His eyes are still turned away from her, trying to keep the act up. Or maybe he’s already anticipating what’s going to happen next.  _ Do something. Help her. _ He can’t. 

There’s a cry, no, a roar that leaps from her lips. The chisel heading for the ice arcs around as she spins to face the Stormtrooper. It’s the only time he properly turns to face her, and the moment seems to slow to a crawl. Hair flung wildly around her, both hands on the handle of the chisel aimed to dig straight under the helmet through to the Stormtrooper’s throat. Her brown eyes gleam in the light, with more than just light. They gleam with defiance. They gleam with freedom. 

He doesn’t even hear the blaster shot. It’s so point blank his hearing is gone in a split second. Aella freezes as it carves a hole cleanly through her chest, hands still ready to deliver the killing blow. She sways for a moment on the ice, faltering on the edge. Then she falls, body careening over and backwards into the abyss below them, in silence.

He lowers his own pick, eyes transfixed on the infinite distance where she disappeared. Without sound, without the heat of his blood to remind him he’s alive, he feels almost peaceful.  _ No _ . Just for a split moment.  _ Please, no. _ He wondered if she felt peace too.

He rises to his feet slowly, the muscles aching from hours of disuse. The rest of the group turn from the gap where Aella stood to him, as well as the Stormtrooper that killed her. He glances at them all, his friends, his captors. He wishes that it never had to end up like this, that perhaps life might have been kind to them.  _ You don’t have to do this. Please. _ This world only had small victories now. As he stares the Stormtrooper down, he considers this one of them. His life belonging to him, not the Empire.

The pick swings up, careening towards his head, and he braces

Taking a sharp breath in. His feet dig into the bark underneath him. Every instinct in his body is immediately screaming at him, don’t look down. Don’t look down.  _ Don’t look down.  _ The wind rushes all around him, almost cushioning him like a blanket ready to catch him. His eyes are furiously watering though, making it hard to see properly. He tries his best to ground himself where he is. Remind himself of the task ahead of him. What he stands to lose if he fails. 

There’s whoops and hollers from far up the tree, the cheers of his friends making the same trek as him.  _ It sounds like Shyriiwook...  _ Each branch of the Origin Tree blended in with the sky the further it reached out. It was almost impossible to see the summit amongst the maze of twisting wood and vines. It was a rite of passage to climb the tree, in order to be seen as an adult in the eyes of his village. He had waited for this moment for years and years, but glancing up at the others already scaling further up, he felt doubt unfurl inside him. He was ready for this… wasn’t he? He had to be. He wasn’t a child anymore, and he didn’t want to stand back while his friends went on in life without him.  _ Don’t leave me behind. _

He leaps between branches, the claws on his hands and feet helping to dig into the bark for a better grip. Somehow moving feels easier. Lighter. There’s a natural rhythm to his movement as he scales higher and higher, tracing a path carved out over centuries of young Wookiees following the same path. From hanging vine to precarious branch and back again, it’s near constant motion as the top of the tree slowly draws ever closer. His eyes are fixed on the crowd of other Wookiees further ahead, all cheering and chanting to each other. Whenever their voices grow faint, he manages to find a burst of energy to continue forward and close the gap between them. He calls to the group, trying to get their attention, but the wind drowns out his voice with its incessant howls.  _ Please come back.  _ Desperation only fuels the fire as he chases further up the tree, movement lighter and lighter, technique growing sloppy. He struggles to climb onto certain platforms, nearly misses easy vine swings. Strength begins to seep out of him despite his determination. If only he was a bit stronger, a bit faster. If only he could keep up with the others rather than being a lone straggler trailing the pack. They probably didn’t even realise he was behind, or that he was there in the first place.  _ Don’t look down. _

All it takes is one second of lapsed judgement. A timing that’s just slightly off. He jumps up to grab the next branch, but there’s not enough height and he scrambles over slick moss to find purchase.  _ Don’t look down don’t look down don’t look down. _ There’s a cry as he slips further and further, a strangled noise of a creature just wanting to be heard. But the moss is too slimy, his hands already too slick, and he falls. Hands extend upwards as the summit of the Origin Tree quickly disappears from view, a last ditch effort to grab ahold of something. Anything. The wind rushing past him no longer feels like safety, or a comforting friend watching over his shoulder. It slices through him like razors. The whistling rises to a crescendo 

And falls into a dull hum. The air that bites at his cheeks is cool in a pleasant way, tasting of salt and earth. He’s sat on his knees on a rocky outcrop that looks and feels familiar. Bogano. Sure enough, he turns to see the architecture of the Vault less than a hundred feet away from him. The sight is soothing, almost like greeting an old friend and the relief that nothing has changed. But he can’t tell how long he’s been here, or recall what he had done before.

_ This isn’t my memory. It’s hazy and I can’t get a sense of the person behind it, like I’m only allowed to view this specific moment and nothing else. But whose is it then? Cordova perhaps?  _

The sky is beginning to shift colour from the typical murky blue towards purple dappled with pink. It will be dark soon and time to retreat to his camp for rest. But he can’t quite bring himself to move just yet. There’s something about the sight of Bogano; this snapshot of a single sliver of time on one planet in one tiny corner of an infinite universe. It brings peace like nothing else has before. That hum seems to resonate from somewhere deep within him, a frequency only he is keenly tuned into it. It’s been a while since the Force came to him in a way that feels so natural, and yet on Bogano he is acutely aware of its presence in everything.  _ Trust only in the Force.  _ A reminder of his purpose both here and elsewhere.

A voice drags him from his meditation, and eyes turn towards the source. The words are lost amongst everything else, but it’s distinctly female. A figure is approaching from a distance, wearing the telltale garb of a Padawan.  _ Is that Cere?  _ There’s a surge of pride,  _ of admiration _ , in his stomach at the sight. He smiles ever so slightly as he stands up off the ground

Violently rumbles as another mortar impacts. The roar of TIE fighters surge high over his head, cannons whistling in endless fire. He’s about three feet deep in mud, struggling to move forward as it clings to every inch of his uniform. The air is thick with smoke and kicked up dirt, visibility practically negligible. The only sign he has as to where to go is simply following along with the rest of his squadron, calling out to one another over the sound of constant gunfire. The ground is littered with bodies all half sunken into the mud; some are more complete while others are just messes of gore with an occasional whole limb. He takes a misstep as he attempts to scramble up the next hill and shoves his boot straight into the chest cavity of some poor bloke who got ripped apart by an AT-ST. If he could barely distinguish the feeling of internal organs from mud, he probably would have gagged. Instead, he shakes it off and continues upwards to the next checkpoint.

“Onwards, troopers! Your Empire needs you!” The squad commander yells as she catches up with the rest of them, immediately throwing herself over the hill and further into the fray. His legs give out as soon as he reaches the cover and all but collapses into the mud. He’s lost track of how long this battle has drawn out for, how long they’ve been advancing, where the hell they’re even fucking going. The only thing to break up the constant view of dirt and mud and bodies is the gunfire that lights up the sky with colourful sparks. Part of him wants to stay here on this hill and welcome any stray blaster fire that might hit him. Anything but keeping on forward. Anything but being part of the war machine.  _ This is what it’s like on the front lines? How do more people not go mad from it? _

Another ship flies overhead but much lower than the rest, soaring directly into the ground a few hundred feet away from them. It lights up the world around them like the sun appearing for the first time in days. He only keeps his eyes open for a few seconds though. That’s long enough of a look at what surrounds him to make him actually throw up. A scream comes from near him; one of the squad caught that stray fire he was hoping for in his leg. Everything below the knee is gone instantly. He turns back towards the rest of the battlefield before him. Both of his options laid bare. Continue to fight for a cause he never believed in just so he could feed his family, or die here and be left to decompose without a grave to ever signal that he was dead in the first place.

So he forces himself onto his knees and then his feet, hoists his rifle onto his shoulder, and digs up the last reserve of his energy to surge forward. Another step forward, and another, and another. Until all his chances are spent. Light flares before him

And fades as he closes the small louvres that line the wall of his apartment. He’s just finished his night shift on the scrapyards, and every single muscle in his body is aching from hours of climbing through old ships. The sun is just beginning to rise over Bracca but he has only a few hours to sleep before his next shift. Yes, he is mentally kicking himself for agreeing to swap shifts with Kalea right now, but in a way he likes the work. It keeps him active, keeps him busy. It keeps him from thinking about the circumstances that led him to where he is right now. It gives him a purpose and while it is not as noble a purpose as he once led, it is enough for now. It is enough.

He methodically removes his gear: tool belt, boots, poncho, jacket, until he’s just wearing his undershirt and pants. He prefers not to be this undressed if he can but the apartment blocks scrappers live in are absolute hell during summer months. Those who can afford to steal one of the ventilation fans from the ships and rewire it to work usually get them stolen or confiscated. Word travels fast between the guild members and it’s hard to keep a secret just that for very long.

He kneels down by the edge of his bunk and reaches underneath it. The floor is lined by metal grates that have the tiniest bit of room to store things. It’s common for scrappers to hide things here; trinkets, notes, memoirs from their old lives. He lifts out one of the grates and moves it to the side. Working blindly, he extends a hand into the gap and reaches around until his fingers scrap the top of a metal box. With careful movements he pulls it out and places it down by his side. Inside is contained a object wrapped in brown fabric, ripped from a large piece of clothing. He gently unfolds the fabric to see Master Tapal’s lightsaber lying there. It hasn’t been used since the day he died. Left inside stored inside this box in the hopes that nobody will ever find it. He could not bear to have it stolen or lost, not when it’s the last link to his old life. His final promise to his master. 

He gingerly picks up the lightsaber and replaces the box back under the grates. Despite how frayed his connection to the Force is, he can still sense it curling around the edges of the lightsaber. Just like an old friend waiting to invite him in and tell him that all the events of the last few years weren’t real. If he were still a child, he just might believe it. Instead he crawls onto his bed, back pressed against the wall, lightsaber tucked in his arms against his chest. The constant dull roar of scrapper chatter and ancient ships being dismantled helps to calm his jittery nerves. It’s a tool he uses to ground him in the moment. The knowledge that he is still alive despite everything. He is here and breathing and alive and even if there are so many cracks in his skin, cracks that he doesn’t know how to start fixing, he is alive.

Fingers gently brush across the surface of the lightsaber, learning every small detail of its divets and ridges. It was like a beacon when it came to objects that held echoes of the Force, but he had never actually tried to unlock its secrets. Something in him soured at the thought of rummaging through the memories of his master. After all, he was already desperately clinging to the memory of Tapal, trying to hold onto a single piece of his old life. Memory is a treasure held close to his chest. Memory is a knife buried in his stomach. Memory is a liar who insists things were better than they were.

At some point he drifts off into sleep, guided by the echoes of the past.

There’s a rough hand on the back of his neck that pulls him back out. He’s barely able to open his eyes before he feels himself yanked off the cot and dragged from his room. He feels unusually groggy and the chatter of voices in different dialects doesn’t help him feel as though he’s been drugged somehow. How long was he even asleep for?

He’s shoved onto the floor of the hallway which jolts him awake proper. There’s a circle forming around him, all dressed in scrapper gear, watching him like hawks ready for their morning meal. One figure emerges as the head of the pack, stepping up in front of him. Of course it’s none other than Wrabel, a tall muscular woman known mostly for being the local bully and snitch. She grins at him as he’s half propped up, glancing around all of them.

“Well well well, what did I say about watchin’ out for the quiet ones?” She comments to her lackeys before crouching down to his eyeline. “You know, Kestis, I wouldn’t have pegged ya as the type to have a sad and tragic backstory. Just cause, well, ya seem like the type of worthless bastard that’s been slummin’ it since they were born.” She pinches his cheek and shakes it around a little bit to accent her point. He stares directly at her forehead with enough sheer anger it might have actually bore right through. Wrabel jumps back up onto her feet. “But, I heard from one of my little mice that ya been keepin’ something tucked away, and I just couldn’t help myself! After all, it’s nice to share with ya fellow scrappers, ain’t it Kestis?” One of the other scrappers standing next to her hands something over to her from behind his back. Master Tapal’s lightsaber. At the sight of it in her hands, he leaps towards her but is quickly pinned back to the ground by two brutes. She grins at him, twirling the lightsaber around in her hand. He’s going to kill her.  _ Wait, no no no no. _

“By the stars, what do we have here boys! A genuine lightsaber!” She holds it out towards her crew of lackeys who stare with eager greedy eyes. “Now what would a low life scrapper such as yourself be doin’ with a mighty weapon such as this? Because last time I heard… only Jedi carry these. And last time I heard...” Wrabel crouches back down next to him, dark eyes completely solid. “There ain’t no Jedi anymore.”

“Give. It. Back.” It’s the only thing he’s able to edge out while his windpipe is in the process of being crushed. He’s almost taken aback himself by just how much rage is evident in his voice. This isn’t how a Jedi is meant to act, but the world made sure he would never truly be a Jedi.  _ This is wrong. This is all wrong. _

Wrabel’s grin only grows at hearing that. “Where’d ya get it, Kestis?” She whispered just to him. “Pick it off a dead Jedi during the Purge, huh? Or…” She sits back on her haunches and dangles the lightsaber out in front of her. Just out of reach. “Have you got more secrets you’d like to share with the rest of us?”

He’s going to kill her. He’s going to kill her. And then he’s going to kill himself for being so fucking stupid as to losing his master’s lightsaber, as to even taking it out in the first place when he knows that Wrabel’s crew patrols the apartments while scrappers are sleeping. He is a worthless excuse for a Padawan, for one of the last remnants of the Jedi Order. Not for the first time, he wishes that he was the one who got shot that day.

Wrabel looks towards her crew, eyes glimmering in the light. She stands again, slowly pacing around on the spot. “Well, boys, what do ya say we do with him? Leave him as pickings… dump him with one of the slavers…” She suddenly stops, slowly turning her head to look at him. “Or tip off the nearest Imperial Outpost we got a Jedi slummin’ it round these parts?” 

He takes that as his cue, twisting around and biting down on the hand that’s clamped over his left arm. The brute lets go with a sudden yelp, and he quickly pivots to kick the other one in the groin. Without a pause, he dives through the gap in the circle and rolls into a sprint. A cacophony of sound erupts behind him, above all Wrabel’s shrieks sending her lackeys after him. He doesn’t pause for a moment, running at full force down the hallway. There are footsteps heavy behind him, but he ducks and weaves into a side corridor.  _ This isn’t right. This never happened. This isn’t a memory.  _

He pauses for a moment to scan the new area and quickly spots a maintenance cupboard that he dives for. He shoves himself inside and shuts the down just in time to hear the first footsteps approach. It reeks of ammonia and rusting agent and he fights down the rising urge to throw up. However, his nerves are singing with adrenaline for the first time in months and he’s way too jittery as he tries to stay still. There’s no way he could possibly take down all of Wrabel’s crew but the thought of Tapal’s lightsaber in her grotty hands makes his blood boil. Plus she’s probably halfway to the Empire right now to rat him out with the lightsaber as the perfect proof. This is it. Years and years of hiding out on Bracca, intentionally keeping his head down to avoid wandering eyes, trying to ignore every single instinct he’s built in his body for naught.  _ No, it’s not. This is a dream. You’re having a dream, Cal. _ He’s fucked. Utterly fucked. He can’t even fight back properly like he could if he had the lightsaber on him. Tapal’s voice echoes in his head and it causes a pang to spread through his chest. If only he was smarter, braver, stronger. If only he was better.  _ This isn’t another memory. None of this is actually happening. You have to wake up, Cal. _

The door bursts open in a flash of light. Before he can even process what’s happening, his hand is raised, fingers twitching as the Force pulls around them

_ CAL, WAKE UP. _

And he snaps his hand forward against the wall next to his bunk. The energy wave ripples out back towards him, sending him flying off the bunk and across the narrow width of his quarters. Cal slams into the opposite wall with a loud  _ thunk  _ and unceremoniously hits the ground. He wheezes as the air is knocked from his lungs, coughing a few times. It takes a moment for him to realise his surroundings; he’s on the Mantis right now. He can feel the deep hum of the ship mid flight against the metal grating on the floor. The ship must be in the middle of its jump from Kashyyyk to Dathomir. He glances around the room to see if there’s anything unusual, anything that might indicate they’re in trouble or this is still just a dream, but there’s nothing. The only thing is a small dent in the wall where he Force pushed himself out of his sleep. The sight makes him cringe slightly.

Cal pulls his knees up towards his chest, hugging them as close as he’s physically able to. Shudders run through each nerve in his body, the aftermath of what just happened lingering longer than he would like it to. Nightmares were not uncommon for him, and neither was the repeat experience of Force echoes as he slowly assimilated the information into his own knowledge. What just happened though was nothing like he had ever experienced. Reliving your own traumatic memories in a dream scape is one thing, but the memories of others is completely different. His psychometry doesn’t just let him glimpse into the past, it throws him in head first with no life jacket. As if this memory is his and he’s living it for the very first time meanwhile acutely aware this is someone else’s life he’s glancing into. Every single sensation still felt real and present; his fingertips were raw with frostbite, wind rushing through his hair from miles off the ground, mud and blood caked into his clothes and skin. Their desperation, their fear, their joy, swirling in his gut along with his own emotions. Tangling together so that Cal can barely tell the difference between what is originally his and what’s not. 

There’s a small chirp from above him, and Cal cranes his neck in order to see better. BD-1 is perched still on top of his bunk, glancing down at him with the closest thing to concern the droid can express.

“...Hey, Beedee.” He mumbles, acutely aware of how raw his voice sounds. The little droid does a little hop in response before letting out a low  _ beebee-boop? _

“I’m sorry if I woke you up.” He unclenches his muscles just a little bit, allowing the tension he barely realises was there ease out. “I was just having a bad dream, that’s all.” That wasn’t all a lie. Being back on Bracca and losing the lightsaber was just a old fashioned nightmare, but the rest… he didn’t know if he could call it a nightmare. He didn’t know what to call it.

BD-1 edges closer towards him, head tilted to one side. Cal wants to raise a hand to help him down, to have the comfort of knowing the droid was next to him, but as much as he willed it he couldn’t move. His body simply refused any request to move his arms, emotional exhaustion setting in besides the lingering sensation of the echoes. BD-1 curls up a bit, quietly whirring and emitting a  _ boop boop?  _

Cal shakes his head slowly. “No, no, don’t wake up Cere and Greez. I’ll be fine, little buddy. I just gotta…” His voice wavers as his throat grows heavy. There’s that pain in his chest, the one that hasn’t quite left since the day Master Tapal died. “I just gotta… sit here for a little while…” The words trail off and it’s not long before he lets out a strangled sob, then two, then the tears won’t stop.

BD-1 lets out a sharp trill and jumps down towards Cal. They nudge their head against his tricep with increasing insistence, waiting to be allowed in. He manages to raise his hands and gently pull them close to his chest as his body is wracked with more and more tremors. The droid quietly chirps and hums small reassurances, meanwhile his cries only grow louder and louder. He wants to say something back but he’s stuck hyperventilating while his body struggles to comprehend everything that he’s just witnessed. All he can is hold BD-1 close and wait as the tide tugs at him. The water calls, always waiting to pull him back under.

And Cal drowns.

**Author's Note:**

> logically i probably should have waited until after i finish playing jfo to post this, but cal’s psychometry affecting and amplifying his own trauma by blending together his memories with the force echoes was something that's been at the back of my mind constantly so here's some of Whatever The Hell This Is. title is from a florence + the machine song.
> 
> plugs: tumblr @campmccarran, twitter @specterette  
> 


End file.
